


Ninety Seconds

by Soquilii9



Category: Leverage
Genre: Backstory, Chefs, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: One of Eliot Spencer's many backstories about one of the two men who kept him from falling all the way down.Based on The French Connection Job





	Ninety Seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RoFire9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoFire9/gifts).



 

**[FROM THE EPISODE]**

**Vargas Culinary Institute**

**_A few weeks ago_ **

The French supplier and his handlers had already arrived when David Lampard, restauranteur, came striding confidently into the kitchen of the Vargas Culinary Institute.  Accompanying him was his bodyguard, Rampone, carrying a briefcase.

‘I’d rather do this in a back alley or somewhere,’ said Lampard.

‘You watch too many movies,’ Jean Luc sneered.  ‘ _Ze cash_.’

Rampone snapped opened the case.  Almost simultaneously, Jean Luc’s man displayed the contents of the satchel he carried.

It was Lampard’s turn to sneer.  ‘Yeah, your product’s great, but I can’t afford your prices anymore.’

‘Price is non-negotiable,’ Jean Luc replied in his thick accent.

Suddenly, a small middle-aged man in a blue chef’s jacket, unaware of the current drama hurriedly entered the kitchen.  He had matters of a different nature on his mind and had no idea he was walking into a drug deal.  ‘What were you thinking, David?  Banning my students from the school??’ he demanded to know.

‘This is not the time or place…’ Lampard admonished the man.

Jean-Luc repeated his terms, emphasizing his words with a jabbing finger.  ‘$12,000 a kilo, Lampard.  _Non-negotiable.’_

He and his gang left the kitchen.

The gray haired man stepped forward.  ‘Oh, my God!  You two are…  You won’t get away with this!’  He started to walk away.

Rampone grabbed the smaller man from behind and struck him several times before he took him by the collar and forced him to face Lampard.

‘This school is no longer a ‘school for troubled youth,’ as you call it,’ Lampard informed him, ‘and you no longer work here.’  Lampard patted the man’s cheek.  He turned and walked away, leaving Rampone to continue his vicious and unnecessary assault upon the smaller man.

~~~~~

_Bridgeport Brewpub_

Toby Heath was name of that small, gray-haired man.  He couldn't fight back but he knew who to call:  one of his former students, who wasted no time in getting his case before Nate Ford and brought Toby to meet Nate at the brewpub.

‘Look - my body will heal,’ said Toby.  His face was a mass of cuts and bruises; not to mention what was hidden beneath his shirt.  ‘It's about my students.  These kids, they come from foster homes.  A lot of them have arrest records.  They can't afford normal trade school, never mind culinary school.  I was giving them a second chance.  We're about to open a restaurant at the school, give them job opportunities.  Now they have nowhere to go.’

‘And all this so Lampard can jack up the tuition costs?’ Eliot Spencer asked.

‘He says nobody cares about the art - that they all just want to be celebrity chefs, get their own TV show.  He's charging thirty grand tuition, promising folks they can become ‘rock-star’ chefs or something.’

‘This doesn't explain the beating that you took,’ Nate replied.

‘I'm pretty sure Lampard's dealing drugs,’ Toby said.

‘How do you know?’

‘I walked in on him and a couple of guys.  They exchanged a briefcase full of cash for a big duffel bag.’

‘Did - did you see any drugs?’ Nate asked, skeptically.

‘I did hear someone say the price was $12,000 a kilo.’

‘Cocaine,’ said Eliot.

‘Can you help me?’ Toby asked, plaintively.

Nate Ford paused, considering.  He looked at his partner.  ‘Can I talk to you?’

~~~~~

**Brussels, Belgium**

**_Some years ago_ **

In and out in ninety seconds.  That was the assignment:  recon; search and destroy - all in a minute and a half.

Eliot Spencer, working his second PMC and teamed with a partner1 entered the restaurant in central Brussels after picking the lock on the back alley door.  The assignment was to kill an informant and witness.  Lights from the kitchen spilled over into the hallway leading from the door, providing just enough illumination to verify the intel.  The target was here, alone, working late.  The chance of anyone else in the building at this hour was remote, but Eliot’s partner was reconning the top floor just the same.  Eliot’s job was to take out the main target – silently; using the military issue K-bar clipped to his belt.  He didn’t ask why the man had to be wasted; it wasn’t his job to know or question.  Eliot suspected the men who had hired him were Milieu2 – but he didn’t question that, either.  All he cared about was the score.  One hundred large in exchange for killing one snitch.  Nobody to risk his life for.  Easy money.

Eliot Spencer didn’t know it at the time but his life was about to change.  Once those ninety seconds were up things were going to be a little different, although there remained a few more years of blood work ahead, under a man more sinister than Capone, for the change to take effect. 

The man at the tip of his blade would throw him a lifeline, preventing him from falling all the way down.

The ninety seconds were ticking by.

As Eliot crept forward, his fingers flicked the snap on the knife’s canvas sheath.  He gripped the weapon, slid it soundlessly free and flipped it into position.  Pots and pans rattled ahead of him; fire sizzled and steam wafted the fragrance of something so mouthwatering he feared the growling of his stomach would betray him.

The target stood just a few feet away, his back to Eliot, his attention on his task.  A smallish man with gray hair, plaid shirt hidden beneath an apron, khaki pants and tennis shoes – _this_ was the target?  He sized the man up – he was about as intimidating as a mouse.  Looks, however could be deceiving, and he had a job to do.  His skill level insured the guy wouldn’t feel anything.  Strike from behind, insert at base of the neck, twist.  He’d barely know what hit him.  Eliot moved forward and raised the knife.

The man spoke up without turning around.  ‘If it’s all the same to you, son, can I finish cooking this?  It’s just about done.’

Eliot hesitated, arresting the momentum of his weapon.  ‘You Toby Hughes?’

‘Yep.’  The man turned and looked at Eliot.  ‘Jean Marchand send you to kill me?’

‘I don’t have a name, just orders,’ Eliot growled.

The man nodded sagely.  ‘Probably Marchand.  I turned him in - testified against him at his drug trial in Paris.  Brought down one hell of a drug cartel.  I was told something like this would probably happen; it’s why I moved to Brussels.  Had some relatives here.  Y’know, I did time myself when I was younger – same scenario too - drugs.  Went to prison for seven years.  Worked in the prison kitchen.  Decided that cooking broccoli was better than selling it.’

‘Broccoli?’

‘Old school.  Street slang for marijuana.  Showing my age here...’

While he talked, Toby was pouring wine over the contents of a large skillet, throwing in spices and swirling the contents over a low flame.  The absurdity of it struck Eliot; the man was calmly cooking as if an intimidating hit-man brandishing a large knife wasn’t standing just inches away.  He smoothly tipped the contents onto a large platter of rice.

‘You done?’ Eliot growled.

‘Yeah,’ he sighed, ‘but I was hoping you’d wait until I had a taste of my last meal.’

Perplexed, Eliot watched Toby set the platter on the chef’s table which was already laid with a plate, flatware and a bottle of wine.  Toby heaped a serving onto his plate and took a bite, eyes closed, savoring.

‘Tried something new with this beef burgundy tonight.  Thought if it worked I could put it on the menu.’  Toby nonchalantly forked one bite after another into his mouth, seeming to critique his own work.  ‘Not sure, though – I mean, _I_ like it but how will it sit with my patrons?  Ever had this before?  I'm not sure if the green peppers and water chestnuts enhance it all that much.  _Damn_.  I can’t tell.  What do _you_ think?’

Toby suddenly rose from the table and thrust a spoon of the mixture at the man standing in front of him.  Off his guard for a moment, Eliot lowered his knife and opened his mouth.  Toby boldly deposited the contents of the spoon onto Eliot’s tongue.  He had no choice  but to chew, taste and swallow.  The combination of flavors nearly overwhelmed his senses.  He almost smiled at this little man who was either completely fearless or completely clueless; he couldn't quite figure out which.

Just then his radio clicked.

‘El.  Hey, Eliot!  _Come in_ , Spencer!’

He pressed the button on his radio.

‘Yeah, Mike.’

‘I got an all clear here.’

Eliot paused.  ‘Roger that.’

‘Target acquired?’

Toby looked steadily at Eliot, who didn’t need to check his watch to know the ninety seconds had passed.  Twice that, in fact.  He had a decision to make.

‘Affirm.  Target nullified.  I've left.’

‘Roger that.  Good work.  Meet later for a beer?  Told my girl I'd be right home.’

‘Affirm.  Bug out; you don’t wanna be caught here.’

‘Affirm; leaving now.  Mike out.’

Eliot stood staring at his radio for a minute.  This affable old geezer didn’t need killing.  He and Mike could still have a payday if they played their cards right.  _What the hell_.  Eliot clicked his radio off.  He looked at the man.  ‘Best we kill the lights for a few minutes 'til after he's gone.’  He nodded in the direction of the stove.  ‘Kill your fire.’

Toby nodded.

Eliot shut down the power at the fuse box and stood guard by the back door.  When he saw Mike cross the street and heard the roar of his motorcycle fading into the distance, he closed and locked the back door.

Toby was relieved to see the lights come back on.  He watched Eliot as he sheathed his knife and took his military helmet and goggles off.  He was surprised to see a decidedly un-military sheaf of hair, held back by a red bandanna, fall to the man's shoulders.

‘I was wrong.  You’re _not_ military.  Couldn’t figure out why Marchand would send the military after me; I'm not worth that much trouble.  In any case, young man…thanks.  Gotta tell you, I wasn’t ready to go yet.  Pushing sixty but I got plenty of good years left, y'know?’  He wiped his hand on his chef’s apron.  ‘Sorry, got a little sweaty.  I’m Toby Hughes.  Guess you knew that already.’

‘Eliot Spencer.’

The two men shook hands.  Toby had a strong grip.

Eliot stated the obvious.  'You're dead.  You know that, don't you?  That was my job.'

'Yeah, so?'

'Your life's about to change.  You're gonna have to move and use another name.'

Toby sighed.  'You think if they found out I'm still alive they'd still be after me?'

Eliot nodded.  'Yep.  Plus I'm not willing to give up my score, man.  Hell, they find out, they'll be after _me_.'

'All right,' Toby conceded.  'Didn't like this setup anyway.'  Toby returned to his seat at the table.  He looked up at Eliot.  'This doesn't have to be done _tonight_ , does it?'

'Guess not.' 

‘Ok, then.  So, tell me – would you keep the green peppers and water chestnuts in the beef burgundy?’

Eliot, amazed at the man's focus, shrugged.  ‘Not sure it matters.  Tasted fine.’

Toby motioned for Eliot to sit at the chef’s table and brought a plate and flatware.  ‘Tell you what.  Now that you’re here we’re gonna perform a little experiment.  You’re gonna be my guinea pig.  I’ve got four different versions of this dish and you seem to be the kind of fella that might give me an honest opinion.’

He spooned small amounts of each dish onto Eliot’s plate.  He chuckled.  ‘I know you’re hungry, son, I can hear your stomach growling from here.  Don’t they feed you hit-men where ever it is you're holed up?’

Eliot almost grinned.

‘But I don't want you to scarf it down.  Take your time.  Savor each bite.  Tell me you like it; tell me you don’t like it; it doesn’t matter.  What matters is how it makes you _feel_.’

‘Huh?’

‘Food is necessary.  Food is _life_.  But it can also enhance and add excitement to our lives.  Didn’t you know that?’

Eliot looked at him amazed, shaking his head.

‘OK.  You just had a taste of what we'll call Version No. Four.  That was my latest attempt.  This one,’ he pointed to a section of Eliot’s plate, ‘is the pure recipe, the original.  This one over here, I added mushrooms, carrots and onions.  That one has everything but I added hot peppers.’  Toby sat across the table from Eliot.  ‘I’m gonna sit here and eat my dinner while you try each one.  The one you like best will be _your_ dinner.’

Eliot picked up his fork.  He took his time, like Toby suggested, savoring each bite from each portion while Toby peppered him with questions.  Not about himself, but about how the food made him feel.  Eliot, shaking his head, didn’t quite get it.  To him, food was food and sometimes there wasn’t enough of it, especially on assignment.  MREs were his usual fare; had been for years.  One tasted pretty much the same as the other.  But he was game; he had taken a liking to the old man and aside from being hungry, he was intrigued.  This was something new.  How was something as mundane as food supposed to make you _feel_ anything?  Aside from the hot pepper version, that is; he reached for the wine glass Toby had poured for him and drained it, mopping his forehead with his sleeve.

‘Not that one, huh?’ said Toby.

‘Man…I dig hot stuff but that’s a pepper I’ve never had before.’

‘It’s a red habanero.’

‘Maybe you better not use that one.  Frighten the kids.’

Toby laughed.  ‘Try the original recipe.  Very plain, very simple.  What some French would call a peasant’s dish, like ratatouille.’

Eliot complied.  The melt-in-your-mouth texture of the tender lean beef, the slight crunch of the celery and onion and the smoothness of the gravy poured over rice prepared perfectly so that each grain proclaimed its individuality, produced for him a calming effect; a sense of peace and serenity.  From the recesses of his memory, an image of his mother appeared, spooning a not too dissimilar dish onto his plate.  The aromas of her kitchen were again in his nostrils.  He felt again just for an instant the warmth and comfort of home, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.  The expression on his face was all Toby needed.

‘That’s it, right there.  That’s the one that would have gone on the menu.  I'll keep that for future reference.’

The only thing left on Eliot's plate was the unwanted remains of the habanero recipe.  ‘You said I could have some more?’

‘All you can eat, son.  And after that we’ll have coffee and talk some more, eh?’  Toby replaced Eliot's plate with a steaming bowl of the fragrant dish, a side of potatoes and a salad.  He refilled his wine glass.

Eliot, his mouth full, nodded.

Toby laid his napkin on the table and sighed.  ‘I was planning on experimenting with the menu every night this week.  However...now that I’m still here...’ he grinned conspiratorially, ‘I'll have to get a new job...maybe at...aw hell, I don't know...I may just go home to the States.  Change my name.  Why don’t you come to my place tomorrow night and have dinner?  Try something new in my kitchen?  Bring your knife.’

Eliot actually laughed. 

The two men talked into the night.  By the time Eliot left that night, Toby's address folded in his pocket, it was 0400.  He’d been there, talking to Toby, for three hours.

~~~~~

Eliot showed up at Toby's apartment the next night, and every night thereafter for nine weeks.  He ignored the calls from his partner and calls for new jobs.  He was in a new element; a fascinating element, and he refused to let the bubble burst, at least for a while.  Emotion, empathy and compassion - Eliot Spencer had let these things slide out of his keeping.  He had left them in the dust along with blood and gore; symbols of the work he had grown so accustomed to doing that he never gave it a thought.  Somehow Toby Hughes had found the key to the safe inside Eliot Spencer.  The feelings he had locked away could be reclaimed.  Eliot began to feel something again.  And he liked it.

Toby never alluded to that first night; how close he had come to being assassinated, because he saw in Eliot a new protégé – someone he could teach what he himself had learned over the years.  Maybe the kid could be coaxed away from wet work and whatever the hell else he had been doing.  He was better than that.

During the next two months, Toby taught his student how he could use a knife to create instead of destroy; to use his lightning fast reflexes, speed and strength to prepare and carve meats properly; to chop and slice vegetables and fruits and create colorful, appealing salads.

The last night before Toby planned to leave Brussels, Eliot was at his apartment again,  elbow-deep in food preparation.

‘See, son,’ he would say, ‘you’re painting a picture.  This is art.  Except you’re not using pigment or canvas.  It’s better, because this art will feed you.  Paint on canvas?  All you can do is look at it, right?  How many senses are you using?  _One_.  Well-prepared food on a plate?  Well, the first thing you do is look at it.  The better it looks, the more you want it.  Then you smell the fragrance.  You taste it.  You can even feel it, the pieces you can pick up.  Ever held fresh-baked bread?  You can even hear the crackle.  You’re using all five or your senses, not just one.  Even when you’re at your lowest point you can create something like this and make yourself and everybody else around you feel good.  Now go ahead – you try it.  Just dive in.  I’ll guide you.’

Eliot, sleeves rolled up and an apron around his middle with a dishtowel tucked into the waist, looked at the lineup of ingredients Toby had set out in his small kitchen.  He seemed excited and hesitant all at the same time.   

 

‘What do you see that you could make from all this?’

‘Uh…well…we got breast of chicken…onion, salt, pepper, butter…lemons, parsley…mushrooms...  I’d make a chicken dish,’ Eliot said with a straight face.

‘Very good,’ Toby grinned.  _Jeez, I never would have thought this kid had a sense of humor._ I’ll start you off with a suggestion.  Take the chicken breasts and skin them.  I’ll show you how to de-bone them.’

Eliot complied.

‘OK, now we’re gonna rub ‘em good with lemon juice and season with salt and pepper.’  Toby led Eliot step-by-step through the recipe until the chicken was done.  The pieces were removed from the stewpot and set aside.

‘OK, now for the sauce.’

‘Sauce?’

‘Yeah, kid, you’ll find that a good sauce will make something as plain as chicken so good it will knock your socks off.’

As the chicken rested on a warmed plate, Toby mixed the contents of the stewpot with stock and vermouth.  He turned the heat up and boiled it all down into a syrup.  He added cream and boiled it again until thick.  Taking it off the heat, he handed Eliot a spoon.  ‘Try it.  Tell me if I need to add anything - more seasoning or what.’

'What does the recipe say?'

'Fuck the recipe.  I want to know what _you_ think.'

Eliot’s face lit up the minute he tasted the sauce.  He licked his lips, tasting, hesitating.  Then he knew.  ‘It needs lemon.  Just a few drops of lemon.’

Toby took a turn tasting.  ‘Yep.  See, now you’re developing a palate.  We’ll do just that, stir in a little lemon and pour the sauce over the chicken.’

Eliot stood beside Toby, marveling at their joint creation.  Impulsively, Eliot reached for some parsley, chopped it with lightning speed and sprinkled it over the dish.  It looked delectable and smelled so heavenly they both hurried to get the table set.  As Eliot sank his teeth into the delicious, tender chicken he shut his eyes.

‘What’d I tell ya about sauces?’

‘Man, Toby, you knocked it out of the ballpark with this one.’

‘Wish I could take the credit.  The dish you’re scarfing down so enthusiastically was created by a chef named Julia Child.  Ever hear of her?’

Eliot shrugged.  ‘Maybe.  Didn’t she have a show on TV a long time ago?’

‘Yep, and you and I have just made something similar to her  _Supremes De Volaille Aux Champignons **.’**_

‘Sounds pretty fancy.’

‘Tasted like it, too, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

Toby paused in the midst of their meal to talk seriously.  ‘Listen, kid.  You know I'm leaving tomorrow.  You won't come with me so I'm gonna say this now.  I’ve never delved into what you were doing before I met you and I don’t mean to start now…but I wanted you to know I’ve been where you are, in a way.  _Lost_.  Like I told you, when I was younger I got into the drug business.  Got busted, did some time, learned to cook in prison – believe me, I was the most popular guy there when I left – and after I got out I swore off that life and never looked back.  It’s why I turned that guy in – why I testified against him.  I’m determined now at this stage of my life to keep moving ahead.  Someday maybe I’ll teach culinary students; maybe even open my own school.  Anything’s possible as long as I keep moving ahead.  You can do the same thing, son.  Move ahead.  Think about it.’

Eliot looked at his mentor.  ‘Anything’s possible, I guess,’ he said.  'Are you all packed?'

'Yeah, haven't got much.  I'm leaving all this behind,' he said sadly, gesturing toward the massive kitchen collection.  'I'll start over somewhere else.'  

'C'mon, I'll help you load the car.  Got any idea where you're going?'

'I made up my mind last night.  I'm going home - to Portland, Oregon.'

~~~~~

Somewhere along the line, something went wrong. 

After Toby left for the States, Eliot was left without an anchor.  He missed his mentor more than he would admit, even to himself.  Instead of at Toby's place, he began cooking and experimenting on his own, trying to retain the level of excitement and enthusiasm he had known for such a brief time, but without Toby he lost focus. 

Some inner demon took over; Eliot slowly reverted to what he had been before - and worse.  His reputation as a hit-man and retrieval specialist grew in international circles, eventually drawing the attention of one Damien Moreau, a financial mastermind who let nothing stand in the way of profit.  After some years of wading in blood for Moreau, he quit the association for good and returned to the States.  There he was hired by Victor Dubenich for a simple retrieval job which eventually brought Nate Ford into his life. 

In Nate, Eliot found a second lifeline and grabbed onto it before it was too late.  Nate established Leverage Consulting & Associates, moved his team from Boston to Portland and in true full-circle style, Toby Hughes - now known as Toby Heath - came back into Eliot Spencer's life, seeking help.

~~~~~

**[FROM THE EPISODE]**

**Vargas Culinary Institute**

**_A few weeks ago_ **

_Nate Ford paused, considering.  He looked at his partner.  ‘Can I talk to you?’_

Eliot glanced at Toby, rose from the table and followed Nate to the bar where they spoke in low tones.

‘It just - it seems like he should go to the police.’

‘I know what you're gonna say, Nate, but I want to tell you something about Toby.  He taught me how to use a knife.’

‘Use a knife?’

‘No.  Not like _I_ use a knife.  He taught me how to _cook_.  I was out of the service, and I was working for my second PMC 3.  And the jobs we were taking were _way_ across the line - past extractions and security actions.’

‘Wet work,’ Nate clarified, bluntly.

‘Yeah,’ Eliot admitted, softly.  ‘Anyway, I met Toby.  We were reconning this restaurant in Belgium.  And I should have closed him out.  I should have been in and out in under ninety seconds.  But I ended up talking to him for _three hours_.  He showed me that I could use my knife to _create_ instead of _destroy_.  I stuck around for a couple of months.  He taught me everything there was about the art of food, and I...  He's one of the guys that kept me from falling all the way down.  So now, I'm asking the _other_ guy to understand… why I'm gonna help him.’

~~~~~

**[PARTS FROM THE EPISODE]**

**Bridgeport Brew Pub**

**_Today_ **

Eliot Spencer set a plate of food in front of Parker, who was sitting at the bar.  He’d made it especially for her.  ‘Teach me to like stuff,’ she’d asked, plaintively, but at the time he was deeply involved in helping Toby, so he was gruff with her.  She’d been making a nuisance of herself asking every one of the team to explain how they developed their individual, distinctive interests.  She was the only member who had no outside interests and comparing herself to them, she felt that lack very deeply.  Eliot’s solution, after the job was done, was to show Parker his own specialty: cooking.

Parker looked at the plate.  ‘It's just food.’

‘It's _not_ ‘just food,’ all right?  Some people could look at it and see ‘just food,’ but not me.  I see art.  When I'm in the kitchen, I'm - I'm creating something out of nothing.  You know what I mean?  And sometimes, I crush it.  Sometimes, it's crap.  But either way, it makes me feel something.’

‘Feel what?’ asked Parker.

‘Just... _feel_.’  _I know I wasn’t this dense with Toby – I couldn’t have been…_

Parker repeated after him like a robot.  ‘Feel.  Okay.’

‘You know, I didn't feel anything for a long time, and Toby taught me how to cook, and after he did, I started to feel stuff again.  That's why I share it through my food.  This is my art.  This is my _art_ , Parker.  It's like letting a stranger in your head just for a second.  And you allow them to feel what you're feeling.’

He pushed the plate closer to Parker.  ‘Look again.’

She complied.

‘Taste it.  Smell it.  Use _all_ your senses, Parker.  You might get an idea of what I’m trying to explain to you.’

Despite Eliot’s best efforts, however, it was Nate who drove the lesson home.  He sent Parker to Paris, not to steal _objets d’art_ but to _look_ at them.

~~~~~

As for Eliot, he once again found something he’d nearly lost.  He’d dropped Toby’s lifeline.  Nate threw him another one.  He was still in the game; just playing by a different set of rules.  The future looked brighter.  He didn't want to kill anymore. 

Nate Ford had tossed lifelines to three other people as well, and had molded his team of criminals into what he later called his family, _the most honorable people I have ever met._

Eliot Spencer had been saved by two men, one in ninety seconds, one for the rest of his life.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Anxiety is part of creativity; the need to get something out; the need to be rid of something or to get in touch with something within.’  
> -David Duchovny
> 
> 1 Eliot stated that ‘We’ were reconning this restaurant in Belgium.  
> 2 Milieu - organized crime syndicates in France, one of which is the Maghrebian organization.  
> 3 Private military company, also known as a private military contractor


End file.
